


Definite

by Cheloya



Series: Dissonance [5]
Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. Papa D has no respect for his father's grief. But then, his father has no respect for his progeny's happiness.





	Definite

It was a pleasant enough neighbourhood, Count D supposed. The English — being much more in-touch with their natural history, and with the gods of their land more than their minds — were never quite so bent on consuming everything they touched. So the houses, while larger than their brethren in the city, were quiet and pleasant in their way.

There were plenty of hedges, at least, and from the feeders and shallow basins visible from the street, there were a number of bird enthusiasts in evidence.

He watched his son — now great-great-great-great-great grandchild — stalking along one of the hedges, and suppressed a sigh.

He had hoped the child would grow out of this.

“Don’t stand back there sighing, Father,” snapped the younger D. “We’ve been through this so many times already; the least you can do is help me look for him.”

“We have been through this,” Count D agreed heavily. “I will not hinder you, child, but do not ask me to help.” Watching his son drop to his knees in the earth to search for the faint remnants of a human soul was more than he could bear, without bending to hold the stiff foliage of the hedge aside to help him do it.

“Ah!” the younger D exclaimed, all movements slowing and gentling as he found what he had sought. “There you are, my dear. So small, this time! But that carapace is _very_ handsome.”

Count D stood with both hands clasped before him, watching because he could not look away. He had spent too long looking away from his son.

He had hoped once that his grief, as he observed, might be enough to sway his son from this madness. But the longer the cycle persisted, the less he hoped, until he had come to hope only that his son would _notice_ his grieving, and respect it, even if he could not bow before it as Count D’s grandchild had.

Before he stopped bowing altogether, at any rate.

How complicated their family had grown.

"Don't you think so, Father?" The younger D regained his feet without the aid of his hands, perfect grace despite the rough bark mulch and damp earth that stained the front of his gown. Clinging to the back of his right hand was a large and glossy-looking lesser stag beetle. A shining example of its kind, as his son would insist on telling him Vesca Howell had been.

"I have never so wanted to crush an insect in my palm," said Count D, soft and deadly serious, and listened to the joy in his son's laughter.

"You would no sooner crush him than you would murder me," said the younger D gaily, stroking one finger gently down the seam in the beetle's carapace. The beetle chirred, abrasive as its human counterpart had once been, and the younger D raised his hand to his collar and let it settle there. "There. Much better. Come, Father, that's enough time spent lurking in perfectly innocent country lanes."

"My son," Count D began, low and pained, trying not to let the resignation show. But the younger D wrapped his cool hands around Count D's long fingers, and shook his head.

"Father," he said, gentle and almost disappointed. "In this, you would do better to give. You hurt yourself — you hurt both of us, and my beloved son as well — every time you deny that this is right."

"I have accepted it." Count D bent to press his lips to his son's forehead. "Before your madness, I had accepted it, my son. But I cannot support it, and you harm yourself by–"

"Father," the younger D said again, with a fond shake of his head. "Ever the hypocrite. Perhaps I am wrong, and you harm only yourself."

Count D watched his son turn to walk to the end of the lane, one hand pressed against his collar to remain close to the tiny creature that housed a fragment of his beloved human's remains.

He could not deny his son's words, but neither could he accept them. Neither will he ever accept them.

One of them, at least, must remain constant.


End file.
